


The Spaces In-Between

by Gunshy Fiction (Defiler_Wyrm)



Series: The Ghosts Between Us [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Related, Car Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, For Science!, M/M, Made For Each Other, Reconciliation, Timestamp, Vessels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Gunshy%20Fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Travelling with Lucifer isn’t easy but it’s worth it. On their way to meet back up with Dean, Sam learns something new about the nature of angels and vessels.  This takes place after the events of A Ghost Between Us Part VII.</p><p>Excerpt:<br/><i> [E]ven if it still burns like the first time all over again he can’t help the hitch of his breath around the word </i>“Perfect—”<i></i></p><p>  <i>“Yes,” Lucifer answers in a whisper far, far hotter than his lips where they graze the human’s chest, “you are. So, so perfect for me, Sam, every cell of you, every quark. Every piece of you matches every ripple of me, did you know?” </i></p><p>  <i>Sam arches his back and lets his lips part around an open-throated groan. He didn’t know, but now he believes.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spaces In-Between

All well and good that only one of them needs to eat, sleep, or take bathroom breaks. It doesn’t change much given the one who does is the only one who can drive. The other – well. His patience with their present mode of transportation is thin enough to begin with, but when the driver remains utterly obstinate in his insistence that yes,  _food is happening_  he radiates such petulance that the entire diner goes quiet with unease.

They meet in the middle and order to go. No sense in sticking around when one of them’s glaring at every human being in the building as though he’d like nothing better than to liquefy them where they sit.

A few miles down the road they pull onto the shoulder: another stop that costs them time.

“I don’t like eating in the car,” Sam mutters. That peevishness is catching.

“And I don’t like wearing rotting meat but we all make sacrifices,” Lucifer sneers in retort. His vessel — the  _intended_  one, not the one he’s in — suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.

For a while silence stretches between them. It’s tense at first (a wonder neither of them are fidgeting) but grows companionable in small increments. It doesn’t have the chance to truly warm before Sam breaks it. Were either of them to think too long on that they might find it terribly apt.

“How’s that work, anyway?” He tosses a wilted slice of tomato down in the Styrofoam box perched on his lap and glances up at his companion. When Lucifer furrows his brow and tilts his head subtly Sam is more convinced than ever that it has to be an Angel Thing. “Like, okay, I know it’s sort of like possession or a form of possession, but how does that  _actually_  work?”

“Inhabiting a vessel?” A blond eyebrow quirks.

Sam nods, turning his gaze back to his meal. After ten hours of driving even uninspired chain-diner food is — well it isn’t delicious, but adequate at least. “Yeah, I mean. All these years I’ve been hunting ghosts and demons, it’s the one thing…okay it’s  _one_  of the things I’ve never been able to figure out. Two objects can’t occupy the same space at the same time, right?” (Lucifer’s head bobs slowly. Sam suspects it’s an indulgence.) “But, there you are, sitting shotgun while breaking the laws of quantum mechanics.”

Lucifer’s smile is  _definitely_  an indulgence, laced with condescension as it is. “Not really. It’s simple, Sam, strictly speaking I’m not an object.”

The face Sam makes must be amusing or something because that grin turns smug. “…Wh…wanna run that by me again?”

“Pen.” The archangel holds out one hand while snagging an unused napkin with the other. Sam rummages til he can supply a writing utensil, and watches, shifting nearer the end of his seat. With the paper draped over a thigh Lucifer starts drawing circles — randomly at first, it seems, but filling up into a rough humanoid shape. “You think of yourselves as solid,” he drawls, “as one mass of fibres and fluids, but really…you’re a collection of particles that resonate together and have mass. My brothers and I, are not.” Nearby, he draws a series of undulating lines.

“So, wait, are you saying you  _don’t have mass?_ ” Sam’s face pinches up; he was pre-law, for fuck’s sake, not a physicist, but this is sort of making sense…. His eyes grow wide when it dawns on him: “You’re saying you’re made of  _waves?_ ”

“Very good,” Lucifer nods. “A little more complicated than human terms can express, but yes, we are,  _essentially_ , made up of wavelengths resonating across multiple planes of existence.” He catches Sam’s eye —  _keep watching_ , that look says,  _we’re not done yet_  — and carefully draws a similar set of wavy lines wending through the circles. “The thing with being made of particles…is there are always spaces in between. Spaces that can be occupied.”

Sam slumps back and remarks, “Oh.” He finds himself suddenly grateful that he was already sitting down.

The angel smirks again; his tone pitches up light. “Are you done eating yet?”

“…Yeah.” Sam blinks hard and shakes himself a little. They would have made better time to the halfway point Dean set for him were he not so distracted. He supposes it’s only to be expected when one literally has the Devil riding shotgun.

.

No motel. After all this time, all these nights, it’s a jarring change. It’s hard enough to believe they’re here, both of them in the flesh, but something about breaking their patterns so soon sets Sam on edge. He hadn’t expected the archangel to pick up on it so readily, much less be the one to ease him down. Maybe he ought to have. The private little smile that Lucifer gives him as he lays Sam down in the back seat tethers him to the Earth as surely as the weight and chill of his body, where he’d surely slip away otherwise, afloat on his own disbelief.

The neverending thrum of Grace and soul straining between them shatters when they touch. It’s not the brittle snap of glass, but the crack of rainclouds opening up at the forefront of a storm.

They’ve done this dance before — on beds, in dreams — but not often enough that Sam doesn’t wince and shiver around the fingers that explore his skin and press past his lips, past his defenses, into the scalding heat of his body once they’ve wrested their clothing aside. And if there’s some cheating involved, if the archangel uses his reality-bending powers to make things clean and slick for them, well, who’s going to take him to task? Sam cares as much about whether or not it’s a misuse of Grace as Heaven must; so even if it still burns like the first time all over again he can’t help the hitch of his breath around the word “ _Perfect_ —”

“Yes,” Lucifer answers in a whisper far, far hotter than his lips where they graze the human’s chest, “you are. So, so perfect for me, Sam, every cell of you, every quark. Every piece of you matches every ripple of me, did you know?” 

Sam arches his back and lets his lips part around an open-throated groan. He didn’t know, but now he believes. The words come now between kisses and sharp nips to his shoulders, his collarbone, ones that would be peppering his inner thighs if the back of this stolen car weren’t so cramped (damn their height). He fists a hand in short dusty hair, rakes the nails of the other down a back crackling with power, and Lucifer lets him — such indulgences are as much a high as the magnetism between them and the spark of ecstasy in his nerves.

“This body is a dissonance. Close enough for now, but….” —And Sam stills him with a finger pressed to his lips, and Lucifer allows this too.

It makes sense, all of it. The first breach of the blond’s cock where his hand had been has him crying out and clinging hard, squeezing thighs tight around his waist just shy of hard enough to keep him from moving; but once that slow slide ends with them pressed together so flush he can’t tell where he ends and the Devil begins the weight of him inside, the girth stretching him open, is nothing short of “— _Perfect_ ” and he can’t tell which of them whispered it into the dark. 

They rock together, skin singing with electricity, mouths and tongues clashing as deep and hard as their hips. His body relaxes a little more around each thrust and soon he’s erect and arching back to grind when they come together. Lucifer may be the one doing the fucking here but Sam’s the one who sets the pace. Just knowing that alone — it’s one more sliver of command entrusted to him by a being more vast than he can fathom — would be enough to bring him off even if it weren’t for the ever-increasing friction against his prostate and the stroking hand he guides down to his cock by the wrist.  _Faster_ , the roll of his hips insists.  _Greedy_ , the Devil calls him with both a smirk and affection in his voice.  _Yours_ , the slide of skin on skin promises.

Sam’s breath threatens to fog the windows up. Lucifer’s threatens to frost them over.

And yes, they’ve done this dance before, but forever won’t be often enough that Sam won’t gasp and groan and snarl the angel’s name in lust-hazed praise as he takes everything, every inch he’s offered, again and again. He’s so full he could burst at the seams, so turned on he could burn down to ash, and he exults at the bruising grip that holds his hips in place many inches above the seat. Sam stretches his legs wide. Lucifer inches closer on his knees. Despite being held still the hunter’s body is in constant motion, trying to buck back into the merciless pounding he’s getting now. The blond’s body arches over Sam’s, whispering promises and blasphemies in ancient tongues, a rumbling paean to the gorgeous mortal man writhing beneath him and all but begging for more of his cock.

They’ve both put aside doubt and shame and shyness. They’re too tight a fit, slotting together too perfectly into each other’s minds and space and bodies, to leave room for such things. Sam’s done denying that the hole in his heart hasn’t been waiting all this time for the Morning Star to fill it — oh much the way he’s filling another hole. He gasps out a mantra of _Come, come for me, come inside me Lucifer_  as they hurtle towards the precipice. 

Sam crests it with a shout across his own belly and the Devil’s fist. Lucifer himself isn’t far behind. A hand closes over his eyes to protect him from the whiteout and the voice whispering his name pitches up. The shaft straining inside him seems to stuff him exactly to capacity, just shy of truly painful: perfect. The first time Sam had feared the archangel’s orgasm would be what finally split him asunder; but now, as one last bone-jarring thrust pumps liquid heat into him, spreading so thick and fast it wrenches a sob from his throat, he understands that it’s doing exactly what Lucifer was always meant to do: filling the spaces in-between.

**Author's Note:**

> You may or may not have read the meta essay that this spurred. If you have, it might interest you to know it's being expanded into a full thesis. ;) C&C always welcome. If it weren’t obvious the title and some measure of inspiration are from the [How To Destroy Angels song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWbfgGDl6XE). Thanks for reading!


End file.
